Rage then, storm, achieve your ends,
 Scatter these planks, just like the mast
 You only just splintered with a crash.
 Oh this bosom! You lift from it the weight.
 It will be good to lie there down below;
 There one will finally have rest from tribulations.
 What is still crashing? Good, the wave has already struck,
 Go on then!  It has come to pass; we sink, -- No.

We are not sinking!  Still borne,
 Still swung heavenward is the narrow coffin;
 Unresponsive death, you are usually so biddable,
 You are not normally so miserly with your arrows.
 To have to continue to drag about this loveless stark life,
 Oh longer to labour under the yoke, that would be terrible.
 And whether it be this or that, who cares?
 Is there anyone who would weep for me back home?

 ...